Country Music Broke My Brain (35 page)

He was horrified. He carefully poked at the bacon and examined the waffles like they were nuclear waste. Dong looked at our food just as we'd treated the traditional Chinese meal. We had been good at pointing at words or signs on a menu and hoping to win the Menu Lottery at most authentic Chinese eateries. We
never
won once. I once managed to order sea slug and lemons. Autumn cheerfully pointed at some squiggles and received four or five chicken feet standing ankle-deep in brown dishwater. The Chinese have Chinese
every day.
And they never get tired of it. Chicken feet get old to me after a few days.

Our last day in China, I tipped Dong fifty bucks. He told me he couldn't accept it. I was stunned. A fifty isn't all that much, especially for slogging around after Americans and having to look at pancakes. He carefully explained that would be his apartment rent for the next two years. It would throw things out of whack. He lived in government housing and would probably get noticed for having so much extra dough left over after his two dollar rent bill. I think China is a bit different now, but not much.

I do know that if you want to thrill and amaze Chinese people from the “outer provinces” like Mongolia, where everybody has the same serious “Moe”-do haircut, or if you want folks to stop and stare and ask to have a picture taken with you, take two fabulous blonde beauties with you. In fact, if you are planning a trip to Mongolia anytime soon, give Allyson and Autumn a call. They'd probably go.

Prior to visiting Spain, the two things that I'd had contact with that sounded Spanish were gazpacho and Freddy Fender. Freddy is, of course, neither Spanish nor gazpacho. Gazpacho is awful; Freddy is good.

My Rascal Flatts pal, Jay DeMarcus, told me that when they played the White House for George W. Bush, they served gazpacho. He said “When we hit the stage, I said how thrilled the Flatts were to be there, but, ‘Mr. President, our soup was
cold.'
It got a big laugh.”

I knew Freddy Fender only through my producer friend Ray Baker. Freddy recorded two monster hits: “Before the Next Teardrop Falls” and “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights” (the Music Row theme song). Freddy had quite a career and looked a lot like porn star Ron Jeremy. I'm not sure if that hurt Freddy or helped.

Ray told me that one afternoon he and Freddy went into Baskin-Robbins. Freddy spied the chocolate and said, “I'd like two scoopses of brown.” Maybe he was more Spanish than I thought.

The rumor was that the reason Freddy sang so high on “Teardrop” was because he was singing to a track made for Jeannie C. Riley. He hit the notes anyway, and it was a smash.

But getting back to Spain (which I'd like to do), we went there to see the World Expo in Seville. The world expos were events held around the planet in various cities. It's sort of like Epcot Center for real. They have pavilions built from all the countries. We visited the one in Hanover, Germany, and Lisbon, Portugal. The best, however, was in Seville.

We first flew to Madrid and spent a few nights having roast pig and sangria. We did the sights and then hopped on the bullet train to Seville. These people are serious about being Spaniards. They have Spanish food every night for weeks at a time.

They also have bullfights—one of the cruelest and also most exciting things I've ever attended. I bought seats right behind a matador, and it was amazing. The pageantry, the emotion, and the terror were all there in equal proportion. The crowd screaming, the music, and the bullfight itself were mesmerizing. I'm not sure I want to go to another, but I'm glad I went. I fully expected a great barbeque after the event, but that didn't happen. Just like you never see pet shops in North Korea, you see a lot of steak houses in Spain. I think there's a correlation there.

I love music, and in Spain, you see and hear it everywhere. It's like a Friday night in NashVegas. I still remember walking down a street and seeing six guys in black pants and white shirts sitting in hardback chairs at the end of a one-way alley. Surrounded by the old stone buildings and the cobblestone streets, these guys knew it was a natural amphitheater. They clapped and stomped, and two guitars flamenco'd into the night. In my town, they have The Bluebird Café. I don't know the name of a club in Seville, but a nice alleyway was just as good.

Autumn was twenty when we went to the World Expo in Seville. She was totally babe-i-fied. They had massive parties and dance clubs—discos, if you will—every night. We saw shows where Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were projected on giant water sprays and danced on the lakes. We saw fireworks. We heard bands and sampled food from all over the world. It was really as alive as you can get. We heard that chest-thumping bass from a mile away as we approached a massive covered dance arena. There, thousands of folks were ordering tequila and jumping into the lights and onto the throbbing floor. A gorgeous young Spaniard walked by and smiled at Autumn. She was gonna dance the night away. I told her that we were going back to the hotel but wanted her to get home pretty soon. She was a woman but still my little girl. I watched her jump into the flailing arms and happy dancing crowd and said, “Pedro.” His name, he had told us, was Pedro.

Hours later, I was staring in the dark at the ceiling. It seemed like hours, anyway. I finally said out loud, “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” Allyson answered. “She's not back.”

Frankly, I'm not sure it had been that long. We were a little disoriented and jet-lagged, as always. Then again in the darkness, Allyson asked, “Are you worried?”

“Me? No, not at all. Let her have some fun. Why should we worry? We know she's somewhere in Spain with a guy named Pedro.” That's like being in Moultrie, Georgia, and asking strangers, “Have you seen my daughter? She's with a guy named Bubba.” We now were immediately panic-stricken.

I suddenly felt like I was the worst father who had ever lived. But then a key rattled in the lock, and Autumn sneaked into the room, where we had all bunked together. I didn't say anything. Al said, “Hi, honey, we're glad you're home.” Autumn told me years later that they'd just danced and had struggled to talk because of the language barrier. I have the feeling he was a good kisser. She just said, “He was
so
sweet.” I still don't trust anyone named Pedro.

My favorite city in the world to visit is London. They speak English there. Not the kind of English they speak in Kentucky, but close. All Londoners think country music is cowboys and people shooting guns and sayin', “Howdy, ma'am.” Of course, a lot of Hollywood types think the same thing. In reality, only about 50 percent of the Nashville population shoots guns and says, “Howdy, ma'am.”

I also think the Brits are hilarious. My grandmother was born and raised in England during the early part of her life. She called me “Li'l Bit. Grandma and her second hubby owned a strawberry farm in Ohio. Carl had one arm. He'd blown the other one off in a hunting accident and had walked for miles with his arm inside his overalls. He made it; the arm didn't. I remember him rolling a cigarette with a paper and tobacco pouch with one hand. I haven't seen anyone else “roll” a cig except for some friends of mine from England. However, most of them have two hands.

I still have friends “across the pond” and get pictures of their kids now. We've probably stayed in London as much as we've been anyplace except for our house. I was on the BBC for years with my friend Nick Barraclough. He's a Beeb Two radio star, and I'd go to Reba's studio once a week to talk to him about Nashville over a satellite connection. He even came to the States to broadcast the
CMA Awards
for Radio 2, and I cohosted with him. He loves country music and did everything he could to get the Brits to like it, too. The songs strike a chord deep inside him, as they do with people all over the world. I'd always say to him about a particularly great song, “Why didn't I
think
of that?” Nick always replies, “Of course, you knew all those words. Just not in that order.”

Please go to London. It will do you good. Take the morning Virgin flight, as we always do. You leave New York City at 8
A.M
. and arrive in London at 8
P.M
. You then got to bed and wake up without the jet lag. I've done the overnight flights to Europe and have spent most of the trip trying not to fall asleep in my mashed potatoes.

For fifteen years, we stayed at a small hotel, the Capital, in Knightsbridge. It's down the street from Harrods, and Graham is the concierge there. The last time I saw Graham, he said, “Welcome back, Mr. House. We just had your friend, Mr. Willie Nelson with us last week.”

I inquired how Willie had handled himself during his London stay. Graham smiled that proper Brit smile and said, “Oh, he was quite lovely. I don't know what he was smoking up there on the top floor, but the maids who went up to clean have yet to come down.”

Who said, “And some days we'll dress like pirates”?

A)
  
K.T. Oslin

B)
  
Pete Rose

C)
  
Keith Richards

The Pirate Song

YOU
GUESSED IT: K.T. Oslin. If ever there was a showbiz chick, it's Kay Toinette. Toinette is certainly the result of somebody losing a bet. If you've been within a few miles of Nashville, I'm certain you've heard K.T. laugh. I know you've heard her hit songs. She recorded in town for years and had big smashes like, “80s Ladies” and “I'll Always Come Back.”
Nobody
sounded like K.T. and that's because she is a total original. I just can't tell you how much I love her. She's one of the few people who say things that amaze me and catch me off guard. And she is always hilarious.

K.T. was actually in the original Broadway production of
Promises, Promises.
I know she will be delighted when I mention it because the original production of that musical was in 1892. She was a chorus girl and, from what I understand, spent the rest of her time working as a secretary for Thomas Edison.

Decades later, she moved to Nashville and wrote songs. She worked her way up the ranks and became such a wondrous star. Her career lasted quite awhile, and we had lunch together whenever things slowed down a bit.

For some reason, I've been to 297 meetings at one time or another about starting a television show. I always go because you never know when the
next
meeting will pan out.
This
could be the one where we create the next TV sensation. But we never did or do.

Because K.T. and I hit it off so well, both on and off the air, her manager decided we should do a television show together. We met with some boob tube production people and tossed around ideas. I thought we might do a talk show and maybe even show the audience the upcoming topics on-screen. Maybe have a clock and when time was up, we'd move on to the next topic. (Much like the now-successful “Pardon the Interruption” on ESPN.) Nobody stole my idea or anything; I just came out of radio, where everything is presold and kept short. “The show must be fun and loose,” one of the producers said. “It ought to be you and K.T. just winging it and having fun,” another chimed in. I knew we were cooked right then because “winging” it hardly ever works. You can ad-lib, for sure, but “winging” isn't good television. It just doesn't happen.

If you watch when Letterman or Jon Stewart get up to receive their Emmys, they don't get up alone. Forty-five writers also get up onstage with them. All that “winging” came from hours of people thinking up the ad-libs and the instant humor for the shows.

Jim Stafford recorded “Spiders & Snakes” and “Swamp Witch.” He is a first-class comedy writer and comedian. Years ago, he told me (off the air) that he'd sit around practicing “panel” for the
Tonight Show
with fellow writers. Before Jim went on the
Tonight Show
with Johnny Carson, he practically sketched out the whole couch conversation. They rehearsed it. They tweaked it. He'd go on, and it would be as smooth as silk. Johnny asked the questions, and Jim related the stories as if they had just come off the top of his head
—
the true mark of a real comedy guy. Rehearsed spontaneity. I think that's pretty common knowledge now, but back then I was stunned to hear Johnny and his guests weren't “winging” it. Ah, showbiz.